Euro Part Deux: Goodbye to Paris, Pain of a Train, and a cold shower in Utrecht.
Ok. I promised myself I'd get you out of Paris by end of this blog. This is for everyone who asked how my trip was, and I gave them a 1,000 yard stare and mumbled:
"Oh it was fine, yeah. It was...good."
It felt like 1am that whole week after I got back. It feels like I'm just now hitting my stride again. Where was I? Oh yes, I was going to cut someone in the security line at Versailles. We went from that line to the bathroom line. The line to the ladies' room wound down stone stairs, seemingly endless. We met at the top of the stairs. Scott had used the restroom, went back outside to smoke, returned after grabbing a map of the grounds, all in the same time it took for me to get into a stall, wash my hands, and walk back up the stairs. I don't know quite all the logistics of why women's bathrooms do not move quickly, whether it is too many patrons or too much clothing that cause the back up, but nothing is more depressing than having to pee at public venues. It's a fucking porcelain pilgrimage that I usually wait to go on until I know it is worth it. I so hate that line.
Anyway, point made I guess. We move on to the palace. It is an armpit weather-wise. There are French doors(imagine that) sporadically opened throughout the tour. They give glimpses of the gardens outside along with a chilling breeze. There is so much jostling, jockeying, and phone photos in the rooms it is overwhelming. Scott gets tetchy in the grocery store at home, this is ten times worse. I see his "grumpy fuck stick face" settling in on his brows and I turn to shark my way through the crowd. Each room gets 15-20 seconds of gazing, ended with a sharp nod of satisfaction and once again we plow through the crowd. Scott snaps quick photos of ceiling or overall room for later perusal. We pop up the stairs to Angelique's cafe. I consider getting the famous hot chocolate, but I really don't think I can take the milk and sugar--glucose wise. I don't want to be horribly ill and have to stand in line and wait to puke before hauling my green ass back to the train station in town before making the 30 min ride to Paris plus metro stops. I don't care how famous it is. Scott is over it. He doesn't want anything. I buy a ham and cheese baguette, a mini bottle of red for me, and bottle of sparkling water for us both. I ask the cashier if I'm allowed drink in the gardens. She gives a shrug and a smile.
"If I don't see you how can I stop you? You have a big purse."
She held out a plastic wine glass stuffed with napkins. I grinned, shoved our picnic in said huge purse, and told her she was awesome. I grabbed Scott's arm and we made our way outside. There was a huge gazing pool surrounded by assemblies of piles of wood that were termed modern art. We walked around them, gazed at them, tried to absorb them, and finally I decided how I felt about it. I looked at Scott and said,
"Looks like someone tossed a bunch of badly carved toys around the lawn."
He nodded.
We found a park bench and cracked open lunch. Scott wanted his half of the sandwich. I told him he said he didn't want anything. He countered that I knew perfectly well he was going to want half when he saw it. I handed him the sandwich and cracked open my wine. It was eerily quiet. There were storm clouds overhead that had been sprinkling on and off. We were damp, but not horribly so. Everything was muted, including the sporadic groups of tourist that dotted the spiraling gardens around us. I started winding the little music box I had bought at the gift shop. It was so bizarre I had to have it. It was a cardboard box with a silver handle that led to a plinking little machine inside. When cranked, it played a song written for Marie Antionette. A little ditty for a headless queen. Scott chewed as I plinked.
"Jesus! Stop playing that creepy fucking thing," he finally said.
I grinned and cranked a few times more just to show off then bored I tucked it into my purse, and grabbed my half of the sandwich. Scott stretched his legs for a moment.
"I'm beat. And I'm over the tourists. We tour one square then out right?"
I refrained pointing out we were tourists too. I wanted to argue for more time in the gardens, but it was Thursday and we had landed in Paris less than 48 hours ago and done nothing but walk since then. I had to admit, I was beat. And I already had art overload from the Dali and Orsay. Halfway through the palace, my appreciation node of my brain just gave up, and all I could do was think, "Well, isn't that nice?" in weird sweater mom way. (sweater mom, the one who holds all the sweaters and purses when the girls rush off to do something fun. Also seen at sports games, concerts, and the museum of your choice)
We trundled through the first square to our left. It was awesome. The hedges loomed, glowing white statues appeared at the end of lanes. We emerged in a muddy cul de sac that had a white repair truck and two men working an underground pipe. Suddenly, the ornate fountain behind us shot to life. I spun to watch and laugh in delight. By the time the odd thought to video and post it occurred to me they shut it off. That was okay. It made me feel like it was just for us. We wandered back towards the palace and peered at more modern art. We shook our heads. The only one I like was a slab of white basalt that had the front of a horse sweeping out of the end of it, like it was escaping.
We took a few panoramas of the palace and grounds, because they were gorgeous. Scott glanced over.
"Ready?"
"God, yes!"
He smiled and we trundled back to the train station, passing a bizarre live statue dressed as Tutenkahmen A.D. He wore an Egyptian burial mask and a gold shroud, seriously it looked like a gold mylar/veil sheet wrapped around him. It was bizarre without being engaging. I felt a pang of pity for the sweating fool in the mask that all the tourists were giving a wide berth to. He was waiting for money to pour in, and it wasn't happening.
We made it to the train, and as we pulled up to the stop where I had said, rather cavalierly that I would come back to the Orsay to visit the Orangerie across the street to see Monet's waterlilies in 360 degrees Scott said,
"This is your stop. You going?"
I just stared at the opening then closing doors of the train with a resolute look on my face. Scott chuckled as we pulled out of the stop. I glanced over and said,
"Monet is just going to have to wait until I'm back."
We went home and fell into bed. It was 3pm. By LA clock it was 6am and we had got up at midnight for our adventure through the palace by that clock. We took a two hour rave nap, you know where you have partied to the point of literal exhaustion and you sleep like a coma victim for 2-3 hours, to rise to a shaky adrenaline fueled haze until your regular bedtime. Remember those days? Ah, youth... Anyway, we hardly bounced out of bed, but we agreed to meet Athene at 7:30pm at a St. something's metro stop. We were going to a wine bar, with excellent Pate and frequented with conservative Jewish businessmen and raging Paris queens. Scott and I were looking forward to it. She didn't show. We figured she was exhausted from our late dinner the night before with her. She had a broken leg and foot, and we had watched her with horror as she hobbled away the night before. We had offered a cab ride or ride with her to her stop. She told us it was too far outside the city and we'd miss the last train. 'Don't worry' were her last words to us.
When she didn't show the next night, I told Scott she was lying in some hospital and was in a full body cast, having been found at the base of 40 narrow stairs that seemed to be in every underground transport we'd been through. Scott sipped his white wine. We are a mixed marriage, I'm always red, he is always white, we only agree on Prosecco. I think it's cute. He finished his smoke and asked while he stubbed out his smoke.
"Is there anything we can do? We waited an hour. I'm pretty sure she isn't showing."
I nodded.
He leaned back to peer at the people pouring out of the metro exit.
"I say we ride to Saint-Michel, get off and go eat somewhere near Notre Dame for our last night in Paris."
I looked at my husband and partner in crime for a decade, and grinned.
"Deal!"
We emerged into something called the City de Ville. A huge square lit with tall Victorian lamposts holding at least 5 huge lantern like lights each. Scott and I stopped at the top of the stairs we just pounded up, looked around us then said the exact same thing.
"Wow..."
We looked at each other and giggled with excitement. We stopped in front of Notre Dame and took pictures. It was lit up and towering over us. There were white bleachers set up across from it, for what reason I have no idea. I wasn't sure if it was a concert series coming up or what. We ended up in a jazz club near the Cluny-Sorbonne exit, with a trio of earnest blonde college students wailing into the night. Scott got his last Parisian Croque Madame(titty sandwich), and I got a walnut honey cheese bread log and salad. We had a lovely time.
Morning was all about getting to the train. We were swamped by women in headscarfs who were a begging phalanx at the taxi curb. I finally snapped a stormy enough "NO!" for them to disperse like pigeons, bobbing and chattering in little knots waiting to surge the next taxi. We sat at a cafe people watching until it was time to board the train. Scott was exasperated with me buying food and drinks before the train, but he appreciated the food when we got it. The train was crazy packed and we had no place to leave our two carry ons. The train attendant told us to put them in front of the door and "check them at Bruges"
I completely misunderstood her. I thought she meant check-in as in, airport check in your bags, check your bags at the hotel. I am an ass. Scott and I read. I scored lunch and some wine in the dining car. We curled up in our seats and nibbled as we blew through the countryside on a Thalys super train. I had figured I wasn't driving, why worry? I drank my wine and had a pleasant buzz on when we pulled into Bruges. A herd of people got up and I figured I'd be polite and give them moment to clear before I went and found out what the hell checking my bags meant. The luggage rack had been tossed then emptied. Our big bag was there but the two smaller where gone. I emerged on the platform to find a train attendant pointing at my bags like they had just shit on her pristine platform.
"Whose bags are these!?"
"I'm sorry. They're mine. The attendant in Paris told us to put them there."
"You stupid woman! What if there had been a fire! What then? Euh?!"
I had nothing to say. Everyone stared, as she yelled a few more things that I ignored. I grabbed our two carry-ons and slung them into the luggage shelves then slunk back to the seat like a whipped dog. Scott didn't even glance up when I sat down.
"How did it go? Did you handle the bag thing."
It took everything in me not to punch him in the head for sitting there peacefully reading his book, enjoying his train trip while I was probably being burnt in effigy on the platform at that exact moment.
"It was bloody awful. I got yelled at!"
He nodded, not looking up. "I heard."
"YOU HEARD?! Why didn't you come help me? Defend me? Anything?!"
"You sounded like you were handling it. If I joined in we might get booted from the train, besides I didn't want her to yell at me too."
Again, I smothered the urge to clock him upside the head, the little shit. But what he said was logical. We saw a German tourist get booted for calling one of the train inspectors stupid for not letting him smoke a ciggie at one of the stops. That was it, he was gone, his wife left behind on the train, weeping and begging he be allowed back on. Homeboy had to find another ride home. He was OFF THE TRAIN. Don't fuck with the transport people in Europe, they have power and they aren't afraid to jettison you without a refund. They don't say Go Fuck Yourself, but that's what they mean.
The rest of the train trip went without a hitch. I bought another mini bottle of wine to soothe my affronted ego, and disappeared into my book. I was so happy when we arrived in Utrecht I could have cried. I texted our AirBnB host like we agreed and waited for her reply while we cabbed it to the address. It was totally an Eastern European apartment block, those ugly 70s futuristic Kubrick box buildings. We waited next to the glass repair shop at the corner of the building. Scott was getting fidgety and bitchy, pacing and smoking. After an hour and multiple calls and texts, I gave in. Scott had warned me renting anything other than a hotel was a mega bad idea, he hates BnBs after one bad experience we had a decade ago. I told him I was over it. Let's grab the train to Amsterdam rent a extra night at the hotel we scheduled on Sunday night.
Our large bag had blown a tire in Paris, so it was like dragging a 50lb body that pulled to the left. I didn't want to spend money on another cab on top of weekend prices in Amsterdam, so we started the long drag back to the train station. 5 min by cab, 20 min walking, 25 if you're dragging something heavy. About 10 min into it, I got a frantic text.
"I see you! Come back! My phone was off. So sorry."
Scott was dumbfounded. Off! Off!? He shook his fists to the sky. He asked what we should do. I was exhausted and just could not face going back to the train station. I told him we turn around. He sighed. We met our host Marjolien in front of the building. We spent the next hour having the apartment explained to us. I hugged her and told her it was all jake. She looked dubious. I was pissed but I understood the fuck up. Nobody's fault really, more happenstance. I just hated the hour of Scott's futile victory of being right about it being a pain in the ass to do the apartment thing instead of simply checking in a hotel. The only consolation was he had to wait with me while it got sorted. I dropped on the bed after she left and napped. Scott read his book on the couch. After awhile I came in and began studying the map she had left on the table with places of interest nearby. Scott glanced up.
"We need food and a coffee shop. How do we do that here?"
I waggled my phone at him. "Weefee babe."
While we were in Paris, we discovered many cafes had WiFi, you just had to ask for the password. They call it WeeFee. None of the hardcore SciFi WiFi geek in that, it sounded more...well weefeey. So of course I couldn't stop calling it that. I still do say it in my head, when I'm thinking, "Where the fuck is the weefee in this place? I had three bars!"
We found out where the nearest coffee shop was. We found were we were. (a important thing to do before striking out in a strange city), and we set out. My sister in law had been going on about pickpockets before we left, and as we headed behind the Kubrick Block apartments,as I now thought of them, I clutched my purse tighter. Scott glanced the back.
"What?"
"Nothing. Just...Nothing."
Scott looked at the alley we were crossing through to get to the little white bridge that crossed the canal to the street we needed. He chuckled.
"Babe, we're from Long Beach. As far as they are concerned, we are the people their mother warned them about. Now sack up, we got supplies to score before we get to sit down for dinner."
Incredibly, I felt loads better. I quit clutching my purse like 50s pearls, and fell into my walking stride, glacier slow but inexorable..like me. LOL We held hands and wandered into the descending night with a spring in our step.
"Oh it was fine, yeah. It was...good."
It felt like 1am that whole week after I got back. It feels like I'm just now hitting my stride again. Where was I? Oh yes, I was going to cut someone in the security line at Versailles. We went from that line to the bathroom line. The line to the ladies' room wound down stone stairs, seemingly endless. We met at the top of the stairs. Scott had used the restroom, went back outside to smoke, returned after grabbing a map of the grounds, all in the same time it took for me to get into a stall, wash my hands, and walk back up the stairs. I don't know quite all the logistics of why women's bathrooms do not move quickly, whether it is too many patrons or too much clothing that cause the back up, but nothing is more depressing than having to pee at public venues. It's a fucking porcelain pilgrimage that I usually wait to go on until I know it is worth it. I so hate that line.
Anyway, point made I guess. We move on to the palace. It is an armpit weather-wise. There are French doors(imagine that) sporadically opened throughout the tour. They give glimpses of the gardens outside along with a chilling breeze. There is so much jostling, jockeying, and phone photos in the rooms it is overwhelming. Scott gets tetchy in the grocery store at home, this is ten times worse. I see his "grumpy fuck stick face" settling in on his brows and I turn to shark my way through the crowd. Each room gets 15-20 seconds of gazing, ended with a sharp nod of satisfaction and once again we plow through the crowd. Scott snaps quick photos of ceiling or overall room for later perusal. We pop up the stairs to Angelique's cafe. I consider getting the famous hot chocolate, but I really don't think I can take the milk and sugar--glucose wise. I don't want to be horribly ill and have to stand in line and wait to puke before hauling my green ass back to the train station in town before making the 30 min ride to Paris plus metro stops. I don't care how famous it is. Scott is over it. He doesn't want anything. I buy a ham and cheese baguette, a mini bottle of red for me, and bottle of sparkling water for us both. I ask the cashier if I'm allowed drink in the gardens. She gives a shrug and a smile.
"If I don't see you how can I stop you? You have a big purse."
She held out a plastic wine glass stuffed with napkins. I grinned, shoved our picnic in said huge purse, and told her she was awesome. I grabbed Scott's arm and we made our way outside. There was a huge gazing pool surrounded by assemblies of piles of wood that were termed modern art. We walked around them, gazed at them, tried to absorb them, and finally I decided how I felt about it. I looked at Scott and said,
"Looks like someone tossed a bunch of badly carved toys around the lawn."
He nodded.
We found a park bench and cracked open lunch. Scott wanted his half of the sandwich. I told him he said he didn't want anything. He countered that I knew perfectly well he was going to want half when he saw it. I handed him the sandwich and cracked open my wine. It was eerily quiet. There were storm clouds overhead that had been sprinkling on and off. We were damp, but not horribly so. Everything was muted, including the sporadic groups of tourist that dotted the spiraling gardens around us. I started winding the little music box I had bought at the gift shop. It was so bizarre I had to have it. It was a cardboard box with a silver handle that led to a plinking little machine inside. When cranked, it played a song written for Marie Antionette. A little ditty for a headless queen. Scott chewed as I plinked.
"Jesus! Stop playing that creepy fucking thing," he finally said.
I grinned and cranked a few times more just to show off then bored I tucked it into my purse, and grabbed my half of the sandwich. Scott stretched his legs for a moment.
"I'm beat. And I'm over the tourists. We tour one square then out right?"
I refrained pointing out we were tourists too. I wanted to argue for more time in the gardens, but it was Thursday and we had landed in Paris less than 48 hours ago and done nothing but walk since then. I had to admit, I was beat. And I already had art overload from the Dali and Orsay. Halfway through the palace, my appreciation node of my brain just gave up, and all I could do was think, "Well, isn't that nice?" in weird sweater mom way. (sweater mom, the one who holds all the sweaters and purses when the girls rush off to do something fun. Also seen at sports games, concerts, and the museum of your choice)
We trundled through the first square to our left. It was awesome. The hedges loomed, glowing white statues appeared at the end of lanes. We emerged in a muddy cul de sac that had a white repair truck and two men working an underground pipe. Suddenly, the ornate fountain behind us shot to life. I spun to watch and laugh in delight. By the time the odd thought to video and post it occurred to me they shut it off. That was okay. It made me feel like it was just for us. We wandered back towards the palace and peered at more modern art. We shook our heads. The only one I like was a slab of white basalt that had the front of a horse sweeping out of the end of it, like it was escaping.
We took a few panoramas of the palace and grounds, because they were gorgeous. Scott glanced over.
"Ready?"
"God, yes!"
He smiled and we trundled back to the train station, passing a bizarre live statue dressed as Tutenkahmen A.D. He wore an Egyptian burial mask and a gold shroud, seriously it looked like a gold mylar/veil sheet wrapped around him. It was bizarre without being engaging. I felt a pang of pity for the sweating fool in the mask that all the tourists were giving a wide berth to. He was waiting for money to pour in, and it wasn't happening.
We made it to the train, and as we pulled up to the stop where I had said, rather cavalierly that I would come back to the Orsay to visit the Orangerie across the street to see Monet's waterlilies in 360 degrees Scott said,
"This is your stop. You going?"
I just stared at the opening then closing doors of the train with a resolute look on my face. Scott chuckled as we pulled out of the stop. I glanced over and said,
"Monet is just going to have to wait until I'm back."
We went home and fell into bed. It was 3pm. By LA clock it was 6am and we had got up at midnight for our adventure through the palace by that clock. We took a two hour rave nap, you know where you have partied to the point of literal exhaustion and you sleep like a coma victim for 2-3 hours, to rise to a shaky adrenaline fueled haze until your regular bedtime. Remember those days? Ah, youth... Anyway, we hardly bounced out of bed, but we agreed to meet Athene at 7:30pm at a St. something's metro stop. We were going to a wine bar, with excellent Pate and frequented with conservative Jewish businessmen and raging Paris queens. Scott and I were looking forward to it. She didn't show. We figured she was exhausted from our late dinner the night before with her. She had a broken leg and foot, and we had watched her with horror as she hobbled away the night before. We had offered a cab ride or ride with her to her stop. She told us it was too far outside the city and we'd miss the last train. 'Don't worry' were her last words to us.
When she didn't show the next night, I told Scott she was lying in some hospital and was in a full body cast, having been found at the base of 40 narrow stairs that seemed to be in every underground transport we'd been through. Scott sipped his white wine. We are a mixed marriage, I'm always red, he is always white, we only agree on Prosecco. I think it's cute. He finished his smoke and asked while he stubbed out his smoke.
"Is there anything we can do? We waited an hour. I'm pretty sure she isn't showing."
I nodded.
He leaned back to peer at the people pouring out of the metro exit.
"I say we ride to Saint-Michel, get off and go eat somewhere near Notre Dame for our last night in Paris."
I looked at my husband and partner in crime for a decade, and grinned.
"Deal!"
We emerged into something called the City de Ville. A huge square lit with tall Victorian lamposts holding at least 5 huge lantern like lights each. Scott and I stopped at the top of the stairs we just pounded up, looked around us then said the exact same thing.
"Wow..."
We looked at each other and giggled with excitement. We stopped in front of Notre Dame and took pictures. It was lit up and towering over us. There were white bleachers set up across from it, for what reason I have no idea. I wasn't sure if it was a concert series coming up or what. We ended up in a jazz club near the Cluny-Sorbonne exit, with a trio of earnest blonde college students wailing into the night. Scott got his last Parisian Croque Madame(titty sandwich), and I got a walnut honey cheese bread log and salad. We had a lovely time.
Morning was all about getting to the train. We were swamped by women in headscarfs who were a begging phalanx at the taxi curb. I finally snapped a stormy enough "NO!" for them to disperse like pigeons, bobbing and chattering in little knots waiting to surge the next taxi. We sat at a cafe people watching until it was time to board the train. Scott was exasperated with me buying food and drinks before the train, but he appreciated the food when we got it. The train was crazy packed and we had no place to leave our two carry ons. The train attendant told us to put them in front of the door and "check them at Bruges"
I completely misunderstood her. I thought she meant check-in as in, airport check in your bags, check your bags at the hotel. I am an ass. Scott and I read. I scored lunch and some wine in the dining car. We curled up in our seats and nibbled as we blew through the countryside on a Thalys super train. I had figured I wasn't driving, why worry? I drank my wine and had a pleasant buzz on when we pulled into Bruges. A herd of people got up and I figured I'd be polite and give them moment to clear before I went and found out what the hell checking my bags meant. The luggage rack had been tossed then emptied. Our big bag was there but the two smaller where gone. I emerged on the platform to find a train attendant pointing at my bags like they had just shit on her pristine platform.
"Whose bags are these!?"
"I'm sorry. They're mine. The attendant in Paris told us to put them there."
"You stupid woman! What if there had been a fire! What then? Euh?!"
I had nothing to say. Everyone stared, as she yelled a few more things that I ignored. I grabbed our two carry-ons and slung them into the luggage shelves then slunk back to the seat like a whipped dog. Scott didn't even glance up when I sat down.
"How did it go? Did you handle the bag thing."
It took everything in me not to punch him in the head for sitting there peacefully reading his book, enjoying his train trip while I was probably being burnt in effigy on the platform at that exact moment.
"It was bloody awful. I got yelled at!"
He nodded, not looking up. "I heard."
"YOU HEARD?! Why didn't you come help me? Defend me? Anything?!"
"You sounded like you were handling it. If I joined in we might get booted from the train, besides I didn't want her to yell at me too."
Again, I smothered the urge to clock him upside the head, the little shit. But what he said was logical. We saw a German tourist get booted for calling one of the train inspectors stupid for not letting him smoke a ciggie at one of the stops. That was it, he was gone, his wife left behind on the train, weeping and begging he be allowed back on. Homeboy had to find another ride home. He was OFF THE TRAIN. Don't fuck with the transport people in Europe, they have power and they aren't afraid to jettison you without a refund. They don't say Go Fuck Yourself, but that's what they mean.
The rest of the train trip went without a hitch. I bought another mini bottle of wine to soothe my affronted ego, and disappeared into my book. I was so happy when we arrived in Utrecht I could have cried. I texted our AirBnB host like we agreed and waited for her reply while we cabbed it to the address. It was totally an Eastern European apartment block, those ugly 70s futuristic Kubrick box buildings. We waited next to the glass repair shop at the corner of the building. Scott was getting fidgety and bitchy, pacing and smoking. After an hour and multiple calls and texts, I gave in. Scott had warned me renting anything other than a hotel was a mega bad idea, he hates BnBs after one bad experience we had a decade ago. I told him I was over it. Let's grab the train to Amsterdam rent a extra night at the hotel we scheduled on Sunday night.
Our large bag had blown a tire in Paris, so it was like dragging a 50lb body that pulled to the left. I didn't want to spend money on another cab on top of weekend prices in Amsterdam, so we started the long drag back to the train station. 5 min by cab, 20 min walking, 25 if you're dragging something heavy. About 10 min into it, I got a frantic text.
"I see you! Come back! My phone was off. So sorry."
Scott was dumbfounded. Off! Off!? He shook his fists to the sky. He asked what we should do. I was exhausted and just could not face going back to the train station. I told him we turn around. He sighed. We met our host Marjolien in front of the building. We spent the next hour having the apartment explained to us. I hugged her and told her it was all jake. She looked dubious. I was pissed but I understood the fuck up. Nobody's fault really, more happenstance. I just hated the hour of Scott's futile victory of being right about it being a pain in the ass to do the apartment thing instead of simply checking in a hotel. The only consolation was he had to wait with me while it got sorted. I dropped on the bed after she left and napped. Scott read his book on the couch. After awhile I came in and began studying the map she had left on the table with places of interest nearby. Scott glanced up.
"We need food and a coffee shop. How do we do that here?"
I waggled my phone at him. "Weefee babe."
While we were in Paris, we discovered many cafes had WiFi, you just had to ask for the password. They call it WeeFee. None of the hardcore SciFi WiFi geek in that, it sounded more...well weefeey. So of course I couldn't stop calling it that. I still do say it in my head, when I'm thinking, "Where the fuck is the weefee in this place? I had three bars!"
We found out where the nearest coffee shop was. We found were we were. (a important thing to do before striking out in a strange city), and we set out. My sister in law had been going on about pickpockets before we left, and as we headed behind the Kubrick Block apartments,as I now thought of them, I clutched my purse tighter. Scott glanced the back.
"What?"
"Nothing. Just...Nothing."
Scott looked at the alley we were crossing through to get to the little white bridge that crossed the canal to the street we needed. He chuckled.
"Babe, we're from Long Beach. As far as they are concerned, we are the people their mother warned them about. Now sack up, we got supplies to score before we get to sit down for dinner."
Incredibly, I felt loads better. I quit clutching my purse like 50s pearls, and fell into my walking stride, glacier slow but inexorable..like me. LOL We held hands and wandered into the descending night with a spring in our step.
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